Over the Edge
by charleygirl
Summary: An accident, or sabotage? The aftermath of a case gone wrong...


**Author's Note:** This story can be taken as happening before my pre-retirement fic _To Offer Solace_. It takes place in the same time period, between Granada's _Casebook_ and _Memoirs_.

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**OVER THE EDGE**

I came to my senses some time later, whether hours or minutes I could not tell. It was evident that I had knocked my head hard, for my ears were still ringing from the impact and I could feel warm blood trickling down the side of my face. I raised a hand to wipe at it and was relieved to find that my limbs appeared to be functioning normally. A check of my legs revealed no obstructions and I could feel no pain there beyond some bruising and a deep graze to my skin, so, after a suitable pause in which to gather my scattered wits, I attempted to sit up.

At first I fell back, arms trembling, but after another try I managed to lever myself upright and could survey the wreckage around me. It was not a pretty sight.

I appeared to have been thrown clear, but a mere glance told me that the poor horse was dead, its neck broken in the fall. It lay amidst the shattered remains of the carriage, surrounded by broken glass and splintered wood. Of the driver there was no sign, and I fervently hoped that this meant he had been able to walk away and fetch help. The footprints I could just discern in the churned mud seemed to give such an impression.

My mind was still somewhat disordered, and as I sat there trying to make sense of what had happened, I suddenly remembered that I had not been alone in the carriage when we plunged into the valley. My heart clenched and my mouth fell open in shock, for how could I have forgotten something so important? I scrambled unsteadily to my feet, glancing desperately around me.

"Holmes?" I called, only to hear my voice echo uselessly back to me. "_Holmes_! Can you hear me?"

There was no reply. I ran forwards on legs which threatened to give way at any moment, trying to make out amongst the prints in the mud any which could have come from my friend's shoes, to reassure myself that he was well and had been able to find assistance. My vision was blurring, and deep down I knew that even if he were relatively unharmed and capable of leaving the scene he would never have left me alone.

"Holmes!" I shouted, as loudly as I could. "_Holmes_!"

I rounded the back of the carriage, which lay on its side, broken axle pointing skyward, and my heart turned to lead, for there I saw an arm in a grey sleeve protruding from the wreck.

"Oh, dear God…" I felt the breath tear from lungs as though I had been punched in the stomach. His face was not visible, hidden by the hood of his coat, but it was obvious that though he too had been thrown from the vehicle he had not been as lucky as I. Fractured glass surrounded him, and he lay partially trapped by the equipage where it had struck the ground at an angle, its nearside wheel impaled upon a large rock. Without moving the wreck it would be virtually impossible to tell the full extent of his injuries.

Crouching down in the mud beside him I gently removed the hood from his face. The cloth fell away to reveal a mess of blood and bruising which caused me to gasp. I had seen wounds far, far worse during my time in the army, but to witness one's best friend in such a sorry condition is a sight one never hopes to have before them.

It seemed I had been unconscious for some time, for he had bled freely – the palm of his outstretched hand was lacerated and as I looked closer, more blood soaked into the shoulder of his coat where the broken glass had done no little damage. He was breathing, thank God, but when I put two fingers to his throat to feel his pulse it was weak and thready and racing far too fast.

At my touch he stirred, a moan escaping his lips. He tried to move his head, but I laid a hand lightly on the crown and said,

"It's all right, old man, don't move. Just lie still."

"W-Watson? Is – is that you?" His voice was faint but I was glad to hear it.

"Yes, it's me."

"W-what happened?"

I frowned. "Do you not remember?"

There was a pause. Holmes coughed and shifted slightly despite my careful attempts to keep him still. His face contracted and he groaned in pain. "Can't – can't recall…after horse…bolted. All – all a b-blur."

Concussion, then, on top of everything else. My own head was throbbing but I ignored it, marshalling my strength for it would be needed to sustain us both until help arrived. I had no way of knowing when – if at all – that would be. My bag was somewhere in the carriage but I could not get to it, and there was little I could do to treat Holmes's injuries without proper equipment.

"W-Watson?" he gasped, unnerved by my silence. He managed to move the hand that was free of the wreckage to loosely grasp my sleeve, features contorted with the effort. "W-what _did_ happen?"

I told him all that I recalled of the accident, how the rear axle had suddenly snapped, plunging us off the side of the road and down a steep incline into the valley below. Whether it had been a genuine accident, or foul play on the part of those Holmes was investigating was a question I kept to myself for the moment. He was in no condition to be thinking about the case. Gently I put my hand over his. "You're hurt, and badly, Holmes. I will do what I can but you must lie still and try not to fall asleep. That is vital, do you understand?"

He nodded faintly and I set to gingerly easing back the fabric of his coat to examine the damage to his shoulder. He sharply drew in a breath as I drew the cloth away from the wound, taking it as carefully as I could until it snagged on something and I realised with a thrill of horror that a long shard of glass had embedded itself just below the clavicle.

Holmes must have heard my involuntary gasp, as he asked immediately, "Watson? W-what is it?"

There was nothing to be gained in keeping the truth from him. Though the glass appeared to have missed the subclavian artery, he was still losing blood rapidly and unless I could staunch the flow he would bleed to death before help arrived. I therefore explained the situation to him as matter-of-factly as I could.

"I-is it deep?" he whispered when I had done.

"Deep enough."

Another pause, with only Holmes's harsh breathing breaking the silence. Then:

"You – you'll have to – to take it out."

To my shame I stared at him. "Holmes, such an action would be an incredible risk to you! I have no equipment, no assistance - "

"And if you do nothing I am…like to die anyway," he said quite calmly. "I-I would r-rather take – take the chance."

"Holmes, I cannot - "

He forced open his eyes, which had been crusted shut with dried blood, to glare up at me. "You _can_, Watson! You know – you know you c-can! This – this is what you excelled at in – in A-Afghanistan! You can - " He coughed, hard, and continued in a softer tone, "Please, Watson. You – you would do this for a-a dying soldier, would you n-not? Sure you - you can take a – a risk for a - friend?"

There was a sudden lump in my throat. He was asking me to do that which I had never denied the meanest comrade on the battlefield. How could I possibly refuse him?

* * *

"Are you ready, Holmes?" I asked a few minutes later, having made what few preparations I could. If I were to remove the glass it would have to be now, and swiftly, for his breathing rate had quickened and any last vestiges of colour drained from his face.

He nodded, sharply, eyes squeezed shut. "J-just do it, W-Watson," he gasped, "Please…"

I gritted my teeth, taking a firmer grip on the shard of glass through the scarf I had wrapped around my hand. Well aware that I would be doing more internal damage but unable to think of any alternative, I gently began to ease the glass upwards, attempting to slide rather than tug it from Holmes's shoulder. The sound of his laboured breaths and barely suppressed whimpers of pain almost caused me to lose my nerve, but I kept on as the shard moved inexorably upwards in my hand. The seconds seemed to stretch on into eternity, and I wished to wipe at the cold sweat which dripped from my forehead into my eyes, but I dared not pause in my endeavour for it might be too much for Holmes were I to attempt the procedure a second time.

I almost believed that time itself had come to a halt when the glass finally came free, tearing with it a great cry of agony from Sherlock Holmes. The scream cut straight through my heart, but I had no opportunity to offer words of comfort for the blood was gushing from the wound and it seemed the shard had hit the artery after all. I did what I could to stem the flow, ripping up my ruined jacket and using it to bind the injury as tightly as I could, but my own blood began to run cold as I realised it could be too little, too late for my friend. His eyelids flickered, but his head lolled to the side, slack in near unconsciousness.

"Holmes!" I cried, removing one hand from the gory fabric to tap the side of his face, "Holmes, wake up! You must stay awake, do you hear me? Don't close your eyes!"

A long sigh escaped his lips. "…can't…too…too…tired…"

"Holmes!" Desperation and panic made my voice harsh. "_Holmes_! You must fight it, old man, you mustn't go to sleep!" I could not bear to voice the words that next came to me: _For if you do you may never wake up…_

There was no response. I felt for his pulse, smearing blood all over his neck and cheek in the process, only to find that it was barely discernable. My heart turned to water.

"Holmes, please don't do this," I begged. "You can't leave me, not again. I can't deal with your death a second time!"

He did not answer. I felt a burning behind my eyes; a sensation in my gut as though I had been stabbed there. It could not end this way, not after all we had been through together. For Holmes to survive the Reichenbach Falls only to die in a stupid accident on a blasted heath such as this…it was not right. It couldn't be happening!

I have no idea how long I knelt there, still pressing the cloth to my friend's wounded shoulder. Holmes still breathed, but was beyond any awareness of my efforts now. My only consolation was that he would soon be free from pain, even if I could not begin to imagine how I would survive without him. The three years after Reichenbach, when I had believed him dead, had been the bleakest of my life. I could not go back to that, truly I could not. Existence for me had held no meaning without the best and wisest man I had ever known.

So convinced was I that this was the end that I did not even notice when a hand touched me on the arm and told me that help had arrived at last.

* * *

"Took us a devil of a time to find you, Doctor," Inspector Haygarth said later, when my head wound had been treated and Holmes was in the capable hands of the surgeons. "That poor coachman was near out of his wits by the time he reached the station – took Constable Coke a good half hour to calm him down enough to find out what had happened."

"Thank heaven you did find us," I said with feeling. "Another half an hour and…" I could not voice the fear in my heart, for I knew that had our rescue been just a few minutes later Holmes would have died. As it was his life was still in grave danger. He had lost a copious amount of blood, and upon making a thorough examination it was discovered that he had hit his head on the rocks, the resulting injury explaining his disorientation and loss of memory. By a stroke of luck, those same rocks had broken the carriage's fall, and prevented him from being crushed beneath its weight.

Haygarth regarded me silently for a moment, as though deciding whether to speak. At last he said, "It was deliberate. The crash," he added when I looked blankly at him. "We checked all over the remains of the vehicle – the axle of the rear nearside wheel had been sawn almost right through. I think we can guess who was behind it."

"Baxter." I felt no better for having my suspicions confirmed. "Well, he achieved his goal: Holmes will not be continuing the case. That blackguard can sleep easy in his bed tonight."

"For the moment, maybe," the inspector said. "Mr Holmes has provided us with enough leads to ultimately secure a conviction on some of the lesser offences at least. As to the rest…you'd be surprised how many hardened criminals confess to everything once the shadow of the noose is on 'em."

I could take no comfort from Hayward's words. Baxter might eventually swing for his crimes, but at present it was too little reward for so great a price. To his credit, Hayward remained with me in the hospital waiting room, fetching me a cup of tea loaded with several sugars in an attempt to steady my shattered nerves. Whenever I closed my eyes I could still see Holmes's bloodied body before me, see the life gradually leaving it despite my desperate efforts. It was mere chance that he had survived at all, for I had been of little use.

How long we sat there in silence I have no idea for my watch was cracked in the fall and there was no clock in the little room. Hayward accepted my reluctance to converse and instead withdrew a folded newspaper from his pocket and immersed himself in local gossip. Nevertheless he was a reassuring presence and I was grateful for his company.

Eventually the door opened and a man who appeared to me entirely too young to be a qualified surgeon entered. He looked tired, but, having had to do the same myself on countless occasions, I can tell when a doctor is about to impart bad news and his countenance did not suggest any reason to dread whatever he was about to tell me. I was on my feet before I even noticed, and Hayward put his paper aside.

"Doctor Watson?" the young man asked. I nodded and he continued, "My name is David Crossman – I'm looking after Mr Holmes."

Though I wished to know my friend's condition, at the same time I dreaded the answer. "How is he?"

"Still unconscious. Morphine has been injected and he is resting comfortably but we will of course be keeping him under close observation for the next twenty-four hours. The wound to the shoulder just barely avoided severing the subclavian artery, and the subsequent loss of blood means he will be weak for some time. But," Crossman added, "As I'm sure you are aware Mr Holmes is a very resilient man – his pulse has stabilised and he is breathing much more easily. If he makes it through the next couple of days I have hopes of a full recovery."

All the strength seemed to suddenly leave my legs, and I would have crumpled to the floor had Hayward not grabbed my arm and pushed me into a chair. With relief came the dissipation of the adrenalin which had been keeping me going despite my own injuries – I felt drained, and realised I was shaking. Hayward clapped a reassuring hand on my shoulder and turned to Crossman.

"Is Mr Holmes able to receive visitors?" he asked.

The young doctor nodded. "For a short time. Be aware that he will probably not wake for a few hours, and when he does he will need as much rest as possible." He peered at me in concern. "The same goes for you, Doctor Watson. You should not be exerting yourself with a concussion."

"It is only very minor," I insisted. "I will rest when I have seen Holmes."

Crossman did not look convinced, but he said, "Very well. Come with me, gentlemen."

We followed him down the corridor. Rather than a ward, we were shown into a private room - one of Hayward's constables stood guard at the door. When I glanced questioningly at the inspector he smiled wryly.

"I thought it best for all concerned," he said. "I don't want Baxter coming to finish his work, and Mr Holmes certainly doesn't need the men from the press hampering his recovery."

"Indeed not," I agreed. "Thank you, inspector."

"All in day's work, Doctor. Just tell Barrett here when you want to return to your hotel."

I thanked him again, and he bustled off, leaving me with Crossman. "I'm sure I don't need to tell a fellow medical man to stay for no more than a few minutes," the young man said, and stepped back to allow me to enter the room.

It was small, and sterile, like a hundred other rooms of its kind across the country, with the familiar hospital scent of antiseptic and bedpans. Holmes lay in the bed like a broken marionette, the darkness of his hair and the bright spot of blood on the bandages that covered his shoulder the only colour amongst swathes of white linen. His face was deathly pale, almost the same shade as the pillowcase against which it rested. I stood there for some time, just watching the regular rise and fall of his chest to confirm that he really was alive for his appearance suggested quite the opposite. At last I was satisfied enough to pull up a hard wooden chair beside his bed and sit, taking up his thin wrist to feel his pulse for myself and confirm Crossman's assessment. Though it was still weak, the beats were steady beneath my fingers, and I fancied I could feel them becoming stronger as I counted, using Holmes's own watch which had survived the accident and lay on the dresser to mark the time.

I sighed, placing his arm back on the bed. He did not react. I rarely saw him so still, for even in sleep he would twitch and mutter to himself, his rest frequently disturbed by bad dreams. Now he looked quite peaceful, and much younger, unconscious cares for once locked away. I myself felt as though I had aged a century in the last few hours. In days gone by I could have coped better with such a situation, bolstered by confidence and optimism, and a strong sense of what was right. Risking our lives had somehow seemed easier then, though the danger had been no less real. Holmes had always appeared to be superhuman and, despite my own brush with death in Afghanistan, I allowed his strength and certainty to carry us both through.

I suppose that the encroaching years makes one ponder one's own mortality more often. And our mortality… The truth hit me like a freezing wave: we both could have died that day because of a criminal with a grudge and a devious mind. Oh, there had always been scrapes and wounds and last-moment cheating of death, but nothing like this. Not even the attack upon Holmes by Baron Gruner's thugs had come this close to ending his life. And if Baxter was not convicted…what precisely had it all been _for_?

My hand was still shaking, I noticed as I reached up to rub my eyes. I was getting too old for this kind of excitement. In that moment I think I made the decision that I would broach the matter to Holmes at the first opportunity which presented itself. We needed to discuss the situation before it was too late for one, or both of us.

A glance at Holmes's watch told me that I had already stayed too long. No doubt Doctor Crossman would soon be returning to shoo me away. Though I would have preferred to remain, and in my younger days insisted upon it, I was too tired and confused to argue the point. Holmes would not wake for some time, sedated as he was, and I needed to think, to draw my muddled thoughts back into some sort of order.

Wearily I pulled myself to my feet and walked to the door. As I touched the handle, to my surprise a weak voice said behind me,

"…leaving…so soon, Watson?"

Curse the man, he still had the power to confound his doctors. I found myself smiling, turning to see Holmes looking at me from grey eyes that were only partly dimmed by the morphine, an answering smile quirking one corner of his mouth.

In that moment my resolve left me. The discussion could wait; there would be other moments. He was alive, that was the most important thing.

And I knew that I would have my work cut out just persuading him to remain in the hospital.

FIN


End file.
